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Young Orthodox Jews' Quest Is to Blend Word and World

They walk to their Orthodox synagogues on the Sabbath, where men and women are separated in prayer. But as the adults worship, their sons and daughters, in the temple lobby, trade Pokemon cards.

They follow the dietary laws, in center-hall Colonials and Wall Street boardrooms. But that often means business lunches at haute kosher restaurants and birthday parties catered by Pious Pizza.

Cedarhurst and the rest of the Five Towns on Long Island have been a citadel of Jewish suburbia for generations and a stronghold of Orthodoxy for more than a decade. But the new wave of young families -- men who both pray and pump iron before work, women with a cell phone at their ear and a baby at their breast, youngsters in Rollerblades and yarmulkes -- are inventing a style of Jewish life that blends the rituals of Orthodoxy with the rituals of the mall, the gym and the Long Island Rail Road.

This is the holiest time of the year for Jews, as they prepare for the Yom Kippur holiday Sunday night, and these 20- and 30-somethings are their parents' equals or betters in piety. But for this age group of observant Jews, whose influx from communities like Forest Hills and Flatbush has swelled synagogues, sent real estate soaring and inspired a spate of new businesses, religion has become an intriguing mix of the sacred and the mundane.

For more than a century, Judaism has struggled to find its place in modern America, looking for balance between participation and isolation. That dilemma has been especially intense for Orthodox Jews, some of whom have tried to meld Orthodox ritual with modern life and some of whom have seen any accommodation as a betrayal of Jewish tradition.

So while sectarian Jews might find this hybrid life style hopelessly inconsistent, other Jewish leaders see it as the flowering of Modern Orthodoxy, which asks its followers to abide by God's word while living in God's world.

''God did not create this world for us to escape, but as a place to live,'' said Rabbi Robert Hirt, vice president of rabbinic studies at Yeshiva University. ''The question is not whether to live in the world but how.''

Rabbi Hirt said that ''knowing how to act in the synagogue is not a test of commitment.'' Rather, ''the test of a religious person,'' and the ''more complicated and interesting challenge'' is to be a good Jew in the business world or on the ball field.

Israel Kaufman, 32, a vice president at a major Wall Street investment bank, said this brand of Modern Orthodoxy, which also has vibrant outposts in Teaneck, N.J., Oak Park, Mich., and University Heights, Ohio, is the best of both worlds.

He wakes at dawn, dons the tefillin that Orthodox men wear to daven in morning prayer and goes to the synagogue to offer thanks for the return of his soul, which overnight has been in God's keeping. On Friday, he counts the minutes until sundown.

''I love Shabbos more than anything,'' he said. ''It's like a special battery pack you get to put on. It's essential psychologically, especially in the society we live in, which moves way too fast.''

But Mr. Kaufman also has the thrill of closing a deal and the bounty that brings. He and his family vacation in the Bahamas, with food brought from home. And he entertains clients at the Haikara Grill, which Zagat says is so good you can't tell it's kosher.

''I participate to the nth degree,'' Mr. Kaufman said of his demanding religion. ''But I'm also a value-added member of the greater society, whether it be Wall Street or Main Street.''

To be so openly in the world, with all its temptations, poses knotty problems. Take as an example Starbucks, which has hung its ubiquitous shingle on Central Avenue here. This is an easy one for Mr. Kaufman, who is not a coffee drinker, but an issue much debated here.

The debate is over whether a food item is ''conceptually kosher'' or ''officially kosher,'' Mr. Kaufman said. Starbucks labels its one-pound bags as certifiably kosher, but not the bulk coffee used for each cup. ''But with coffee, what could be wrong?'' Mr. Kaufman asked, taking the conceptual approach. ''The only issue is the preparatory process. We know they didn't put lard in it. But for some people even a 1 percent risk is too much.''

Such close calls are familiar to Faye Markovitch. She is the 35-year-old daughter of a rabbi, the owner of a designer clothing store here and the mother of two. ''We are not living life haphazardly,'' Ms. Markovitch said. ''Every day there's a decision to be made.''

When her daughter, at 5, wanted to dress like one of the Spice Girls, Ms. Markovitch told her ''not everything is for everybody,'' but let her keep watching MTV. When her son, at 7, rebelled at covering his head with a yarmulke while eating, she let him substitute a baseball cap.

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The Kaufmans and Markovitches are among thousands of young families who have flocked to the Five Towns recently, following in the footsteps of the Orthodox who came here a dozen years ago and built an infrastructure of shuls, religious day schools and kosher merchants that rival Borough Park in Brooklyn or Monsey in Rockland County.

But the latest arrivals, unlike their more sectarian predecessors, are not somber men and women in tall black hats and long skirts heavy as drapery. They choose the corset of Orthodoxy. But they wear it in their own way.

Their wants and needs are vivid when it comes to real estate.

The first requirement is proximity to worship, either at a synagogue or what is known as a shtiebel, a private house where devotees of a certain rabbi gather. Since Orthodox Jews cannot drive on the Sabbath, most home buyers want to be within a mile of their temple. They also want to live inside the eruv, a boundary the community has constructed by rabbinic decree, where Orthodox Jews are allowed to push baby strollers or carry certain essential items on the Sabbath.

The next requirement is more than three bedrooms for their large families. Then a formal dining room, for Sabbath dinners. That would have satisfied their parents, who were generally less prosperous and less influenced by media images of the good life. But postings on a bulletin board at one Orthodox synagogue here show a taste for luxury. Some of the houses for sale boast cedar closets, stone fireplaces and cathedral ceilings.

Realtors have learned to service their new clientele. Just as maps of earthquake faults hang at real estate agencies in San Francisco, maps of the growing eruv, and its latest proposed extension, are displayed at Pugatch Realty here. Agents distribute a guidebook called ''Shalom Five Towns'' and offer advice on how to add a bedroom above the garage.

Inventory is scarce. In Lawrence, huge houses are being torn down to build even huger ones. In Cedarhurst and Woodmere, more modest communities, houses that went for $400,000 two years ago now sell for $600,000. Streets that had only one Orthodox family a few years back now have only one family that is not Orthodox.

Synagogues are booming. Young Israel of Woodmere, 1 of 11 Orthodox shuls in the Five Towns, added a new wing and more than 80 families this year. But the more impressive growth, untallied, is in the shtiebels, which open weekly, to the consternation of non-Orthodox neighbors.

Jewish day schools thrive. The Hebrew Academy of Long Beach, for instance, one of the magnets for the Orthodox when they first came here, began as an elementary school but has added a high school for girls in Hewlett Bay Park and one for boys in Lawrence, with total enrollment growing from 500 to 1300. Each expansion produces intense, if short-lived, opposition, as with the shtiebels.

For a while, the influx of Orthodox Jews caused many secular merchants to abandon Central Avenue, for decades a shopping magnet on the South Shore of Long Island. Strictly kosher food stores and Judaica shops took their place, but the street was gap-toothed with empty storefronts. Two years ago, the few remaining non-Orthodox merchants felt compelled to buy ads at Christmas saying they were open on Saturdays, quelling rumors to the contrary.

But Central Avenue has a new wave of tenants now, including chains like the Gap and Victoria's Secret, along with high-end businesses catering to the Yuppie Orthodox. They include Yali's wig store, owned by 26-year-old Yali Luss, wife of a day trader, which has been open a year, sells $3,000 wigs and is already expanding. Similarly, Jass Designs, owned by Suri and Steve Brody, has branched out from high-fashion hats, one of the ways observant women cover their hair from all except their husbands, to maternity clothes.

Club Central, a downtown gym, epitomizes the entrepreneurial spirit here. It is run by Skye and Eric Roberts, but is the brainchild of a wealthy Orthodox woman from Lawrence, their silent partner, who knows first hand the needs of her customers.

So Club Central holds all-female classes in rooms sealed from view with Venetian blinds. There even the most observant women can shed their wigs or hats and wear sport bras. Plus, the gym is open Saturday night, from 9 P.M. to midnight, for those who want to exercise after sundown.

But suburban plenty does not replace charity for these young Jews, who say that at least 10 percent of their income goes to tzedaka, as it is known in Hebrew. But Rabbi Kenneth Hain of Congregation Beth Sholom, who preaches in the wealthy community of Lawrence, said he is vigilant for the ''sin of shallowness'' even as he permits co-ed dancing and strapless dresses at temple affairs.

The specter of shallowness haunts these families. One businessman, asking that his name not be used to keep his religious practices private, said he agonized about not wearing a yarmulke at work. One rabbinic interpretation says that removing it is permitted if it affects one's livelihood. But the businessman remained unsettled.

''This whole kepot thing,'' he said, using the Hebrew word for yarmulke, ''it makes me worry about looking like a stereotypic Jew who will do anything for a buck. I tell myself that I don't want to put nonreligious people in an uneasy situation. But maybe I'm just a mercenary.''

He starts to describe his decision as a compromise, but balks: ''I hate that word. I just want to be thoughtful about what I do. And about this, I don't think God cares.''